


Where the West Wind Blows

by wanderlustt



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blood and Gore, Cults, DARK! Sylvain, DARK!Byleth, Disturbing Themes, EVIL!Byleth, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, GOING TO SAY THIS ONE MORE TIME: DARK!SYLVAIN, Horror, Not for the faint of heart, SPOOKY SZN FIC, SPOOOOOOOOOKY
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-07 18:07:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20980142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustt/pseuds/wanderlustt
Summary: Byleth and Sylvain’s relationship has been on the rocks. An invitation from Dimitri to join Garreg Mach commune is sure to solve things…right?“You joined a cult?"“I didn’t join a cult. I was invited to a commune….”Byleth frowns. “There's a difference?"





	Where the West Wind Blows

**Author's Note:**

> Midsommar is a great movie that everyone should watch. :)

“You joined a cult?"

“I didn’t _join_ a cult. I was _invited_ to a commune….”

Byleth frowns. “There's a difference?"

Sylvain collapses onto the featherbed with a thump, his fingers intertwined behind his neck. "What does it matter?"

She fiddles with the cracked seams of the mattress, tugging this way and that until she has a pea-sized lump of cotton wedged between her fingers. “I just wish you would’ve told me earlier. That's all."

His gaze remains vague and expressionless, divorced somewhere between tired and completely _over it_, even as he stares up at the ceiling. “Well, that’s not what you said.”

She tears the ball of cotton apart and tries to roll it back together with the sweat on her palms. “I know.” A pause. “I _know_,” she says again, for reassurance, because her voice feels just _too_ small today. “It's just that…I’ve never even heard of Garreg Mach.”

“It’s his majesty’s commune and he himself invited me, so it’s not like I had much of a choice. It’s a Gautier house tradition. Miklan was invited last year, so was Felix’s brother Glenn, and now it’s my time. It’s practically a rite of passage.” He smiles wryly at the thought and turns on his side away from her. "Some family reunion, huh."

But she doesn't catch it and silence and trepidation fill the empty space between them as it takes time for Byleth to digest these traditions. A mercenary's life is all she knows; but with enough effort, she'll get there: some day, she won’t have to burden Sylvain with so many questions. "Is it a longterm thing?" She asks, putting a hand on Sylvain's shoulder. "Should I...be worried?"

Close as they are on the featherbed, there is a mile between them unseen. Only when Sylvain stands up does Byleth realize she's said something terribly wrong.

“You don’t trust me, is that it?" 

She feels the cotton tuft fall apart to threads in her fingers. “That’s not what I said. That’s not…what I meant either. I wish you wouldn’t put words into my mouth.” 

“It’s subtext. You’re easy to read.” He runs a hand through his hair and stands, towering over her. “You know what? Just forget it. I'm exhausted."

_Shit_.

He's traveled three days on the road to be here with her. He must be tired, she thinks, tired and probably in want of some peace and quiet. Some peace of mind.

“Wait. Don't leave.” She grabs him by the hand, the cotton tuft falling to the ground between them. “…I’m sorry, alright? I didn’t mean it.”

_Yes_, she thinks, looking adoringly at him as he slowly unravels and resumes his position back on her featherbed. _He’s tired. He came all this way to see you and the first thing you decided to do was attack him._

She reins back her silly pride and buries her uncertainty with a broken smile. _He said he wanted to marry you, but how can he marry you when you won’t even act like a proper lady?_

Byleth learns when to admit fault, even when she doesn't want to.

Sylvain leans in, pulls her against his shoulder, sighs and tells her, “My brother never said what he meant. I had to learn to read subtext since I was a kid.” He presses a chaste little kiss against her forehead. “It’s just habit.”

“A bad one,” she teases, hoping they can go back to the beginning, long before the tension settled in. “You ought to consider fixing it.” 

“You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” He doesn’t smile, looking into some invisible void that Byleth can never reach. “I just...I wish I never had this crest. Things could've been different."

Byleth wants to comfort him, but this is a conversation old as time, and she knows it's best to let him ruminate: he never lingers very long anyway.

A pause, a breath, and a pinch; he has the sleeve of her robes tucked between his index finger and thumb but doesn’t realize he’s also taken a patch of her skin too. “I wish I never had this body," he mutters.

She doesn’t tell him he’s hurting her.

"I know," she whispers; and though she can't quite explain it, she knows she can grant his wish if she tries hard enough. A moment of hope so profound and inspiring it keeps her tethered the the pain of his pinch. _I'll get you what you want_, she thinks, burying her face in his shoulder. _Even if it's the last thing I do, I swear it._

Sylvain leans in and kisses her deeply, and though she wants to pull away, she doesn't.

"Sorry," he murmurs, pulling back. "I came all this way because your father died...I haven't even gotten the chance to ask you how you're holding up."

She shakes her head. "We don't have to. It's...best if I don't talk about it."

"Are you sure?"

It's been some time since they've made love, but she's aware there are certain duties she must fulfill in this partnership with him; fifty-fifty, she tells herself, _fifty-fifty and I go where the west wind blows_. An old saying her father used to mutter under his breath whenever he lost a bad bluff. _Fifty-fifty and and I go where the west wind blows._

Byleth kisses him back and tells herself this is for the best.

* * *

“Why did you invite her?”

Sylvain yawns, taking a deep swig of ale, and coats his upper lip with a foam mustache. “Her dad just died. She’s left her mercenary days behind and has no friends and no family. Besides, she's not that bad once you get to know her."

Felix rolls his eyes. “Are you daft? She has no title, no land, no deeds. Your father would never consent to this union. You’re just wasting your time—your time and hers.”

Dimitri considers it, pausing to look at the cracks in the table. “Didn’t she leave her mercenary life because you asked her to?”

“Yes, well, it’s complicated.” Sylvain buries his face in his ale until he empties every last drop. “A woman shouldn’t be traveling alone in a group full of men bereaved of pleasures, goods, and gods know what else.”

Felix doesn’t miss a beat. “Tch. She could probably handle herself.”

Sylvain agrees. But he’s always erred on the safe side.

(Besides, it's almost too humiliating to admit he's been bested by her one too many times while sparring.)

He winks at the barmaid and calls for another pint of ale, hoping they can move on. "So, your highness, any cute ladies I should be aware of at this commune of yours?"

Dimitri decides to humor him. "A few, perhaps. My sisters in name, but not in blood."

Felix rolls his eyes, not without emptying the contents of his mug. "Don't encourage him."

Sylvain just grins.

Byleth joins them in the night, when the hour is late, and when the pub has all but emptied; Sylvain is passed out on the table and Felix is nursing an early hangover with an odd assortment of garlic and stems. She studies their conditions, smiles, and joins hesitantly.

“Sorry I’m late,” she says, unsure who she’s really apologizing to, and takes the empty space across from Dimitri at the table. “Sylvain said you would be at Nine Cats.”

Felix just looks rubs his temple like it’s too much effort to even be alive. “It burned down a week ago.” 

Dimitri turns the tune of their conversation. “I hear you’re coming to Garreg Mach with us.” 

She takes special care to keep her gaze from wandering towards Dimitri. “Yes. I, um…apologize for intruding."

“Oh, please. Don’t apologize.” He looks perplexed, his eyes twinkling brightly. “Perhaps it’s forward of me, but I think this trip will be...good for you, perhaps restorative."

A blush kisses his cheeks, as he leans closer, the table suddenly feeling very small between them. “…It seems we have a lot in common, you and I.”

Felix utters a groan, drops his forehead to the table with a thump, and mutters something about _subtlety _and being _boorish_.

Dimitri’s eyes are so striking Byleth finds it hard to look at him properly. “Like what?”

He closes the distance between them and takes her hands. “I lost my parents too."

She pulls away, wondering what Sylvain would think if he were wake up and see them like this.

Dimitri’s being eager, _dangerously eager; _and though his touch is enough to make her recoil in her seat, she doesn't necessarily despise it either. 

For what it’s worth, it’s warm; his hands are big, all-encompassing, and his touch is sincere and true. She thinks it’s silly how much one little moment’s carelessness can close the distance between two people who’ve otherwise been strangers.

* * *

Garreg Mach is beautiful. A fortress in an open field with the woods sitting only half a mile away. Byleth is astounded by how serene it is, how quiet it goes in the night, and wonders why sunlight still shines like morning even when the hour is late.

Sylvain’s eyes dart to the chain of redheads in white cotton dresses dancing across the field and back to Byleth. “You feeling alright?” 

She doesn’t miss his wandering gaze but nods anyway and tells herself he's just admiring the view. Besides, she finds it hard to look away too, especially from the woman in white standing at the center of the field with the crown of flowers. She’s startling beautiful, with her luscious green locks and eyes clear as day.

“Who’s that?” The words tumble and escape her so quickly, she can’t help but blush at her own eagerness.

Dimitri, who’s been walking behind Byleth up the pathway, smiles. “Rhea, our commune leader.” 

The dreamy woman comes to their party and greets them with a smile. “Welcome,” she tells Sylvain. To Felix, she offers her hand. “Welcome, child."

And to Byleth, “Welcome home.”

"Where's Glenn?" Felix glances around, one hand on his hips. "Father said he'd be around."

"I'd ask about Miklan but I doubt he'd want to see me," Sylvain sighs, glancing back at the chain of girls frolicking in the fields. "What are brothers for, right?"

Rhea just smiles serenely. "You'll see them soon."

* * *

As they unpack their belongings in their living spaces, Felix peers out the window. “I hear they have a fighting tournament for willing volunteers. That true?”

Dimitri laughs. “It is, yes.”

Sylvain perks up. “A little competition? Count me in.”

“The winner gets crowned godking,” Dimitri explains. “They have the honor of sitting at the head table during our feast. But the losers of the tournament pay tribute. Glenn and Miklan lost last year and—" 

“Don’t care about that.” Felix flicks off the thought with a sneer. “Who won?"

Dimitri flushes red and Felix rolls his eyes. "_Of course_."

Sylvain looks at the redhead who’d caught his gaze earlier frolicking outside the window. “So, how does this work? You’re all a family or something?”

“Something like that.” Dimitri smiles. “We have outsiders join in us in the commune every year, as not to muddle our bloodlines.”

The thought is enough to jolt even Felix out of his battle daze.

Sylvain just looks outside at the other girls at the commune -- Annette, was it? Or Mercedes? And that green-haired goddess, Rhea? -- who are teaching Byleth how to make flower crowns in the field. He smiles.

"Sounds like a plan to me."

"You best watch out," Felix chides, rolling his eyes. "Lest you get yourself in trouble."

Sylvain bites his lower lip to stop from letting something snarky spill. Felix always bests him when it comes to stubbornness and he's not truly aiming to win this time around. "I will," he says, and doesn't mean it one bit. "Not like anyone expects anything from me anyway."

* * *

Rhea takes Byleth’s hand and leads her across the pathway towards the cathedral, shining bright under sunlight. “Tell me, what brings you here with us?” 

Byleth glances behind at Sylvain, who’s helping set up a walkway to the field for the tournament. "Sylvain invited me.” And then, for good measure. “Dimitri, too, I suppose."

Rhea looks at her again with all the patience in the world. “You didn’t answer the question.”

They stop short of the church’s entrance, where a screech pierces the air, followed by cacophony of cries. There's clawing on the other side, and the doors tremble and shake in their wake.

Then, as if they never existed, silence.

Byleth's eyes widen. “What...was that?”

Rhea laughs. “Old friends of the commune. You needn't worry about them."

Still startled, Byleth finds her knees going weak as she sits down on one of the stone benches outside the cathedral, her eyes never wavering from the doors. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." Rhea kneels before her, dusting off the grass on her robes. “Now tell me, are you planning on participating in our tournament?”

“Oh, I can’t—” Byleth stops herself short of mentioning Sylvain’s name. “I hung up my sword long ago.”

A lie, of course.

Still, Rhea’s smile remains resilient and true. “Why not try your hand at it? You’ve nothing to lose.”

She hits too close to home.

Though she'd never enjoyed particularly enjoyed it, fighting is the only thing Byleth has ever been good at. Her father taught her everything she ever knew and she made a flimsy promise once upon a time that she'd pass on the practice to her children, if she ever had any. _Fifty-fifty and I go where the west wind blow_, she thinks, smiling. _Fifty-fifty and I go where the tournament takes me._

Rhea presses a kiss to Byleth’s hand and smiles, reverently. “I see such potential you.”

Another screech comes from inside the cathedral, but Byleth holds her gaze steady.

* * *

Felix always knew with enough grit and effort, Sylvain could make a fearsome adversary on the battlefield. He just never thought he would be the on the receiving end of it. 

“Knocked out early by a hog and his stick,” he mutters, watching Byleth take her place across the field with a sparring sword.

She had soared through the tournament without a hitch until she reached Dimitri, who, for all intents and purposes, put on quite an artful display of skill with his lance. Perhaps this commune did well in servicing his training, he thought, looking at Rhea, who presided over the tournament with a dreamy smile.

_'How fitting,’_ he thinks, watching Sylvain take his place across from her.

From their choice of weapons alone, Sylvain should be able to take the match with ease. But after Byleth’s tussle with Dimitri, Felix isn’t so sure what to believe anymore. With no formal training, she relies on being unpredictable: and with that poker face to boot, she could fool anyone.

“Come on, Byleth!” The one called Annette cries out. "You can do it!"

Ingrid, the blonde, cheers and whoops. “You've got this Byleth, go!”

Mercedes laughs and cheers along girlishly. "Go!"

Byleth and Sylvain raise their blades; he winks at her across the field. "Don't go easy on me, eh?"

She doesn't waver.

Rhea smiles serenely. "Begin."

Sylvain hits the floor so quick Felix isn’t sure what he's witnessed.

Byleth doesn’t hesitate; she never does. Felix finds himself blanching, embarrassed that it’s taken him this long to realize: she’s the last one standing because she never pauses, never takes a breath, and most of all, never gives her enemy the chance to blink.

They’re chanting her name: _Byleth, Byleth, Byleth!_

With Sylvain’s blood smeared on her face, she breaks into a smile.

"Godking, godking, godking!"

Dimitri is the first to approach her, the first to kneel, the first to press his lips to her knuckles. "Godqueen," he says, and like wildfire, it takes root and catches on. A chorus of _godqueens_ fill the air, as the women of the commune surround and consume her. For what it's worth, she looks like she's having the time of her life, smiling and laughing as they pick her up and carry her towards the castle, leaving nothing behind except Sylvain with his tail between his legs.

* * *

Sylvain watches from afar, frowns when Annette and Mercedes surround her, stacking Byleth’s head tall with flower crowns. “Godqueen, godqueen, godqueen!” They chant, cheerfully, as they help sit her down at the head of the table in the dining hall, hands held high to keep the flowers from tumbling down.

Dimitri takes the empty seat on her right and whispers something in her ear. She blushes. 

Sylvain loses his appetite, looking over to see the redhead from the field smiling at him.

Felix gives him a look. "Watch yourself."

But he'll always be a son of Gautier. It's what they expect from him, and if there's one thing Sylvain knows what to do, it's to deliver. "Screw off," he mutters, standing up from his seat. "There's nothing left for me here, anyway."

* * *

When the feast ends, Byleth looks around for Sylvain but finds him missing at their table. As if reading her mind, Dimitri offers her a hand, “I’ll walk you to your room.”

She smiles, shyly, and follows him, keeping her hands locked at her sides.

He doesn't appear offended and keeps a respectable distance as he walks her towards the dorms. “You were incredible today,” he says, . “I’ve never seen such poise like that before—I...Byleth, you truly outmaneuvered every opponent you faced today. I hope you don't mind my asking, but I would love to have some pointers when we spar..."

He blushes. “Forgive me. I’m being forward again.”

The words spill faster than she can think. “I like forward.”

She catches herself.

She looks up at the second floor of sleeping rooms, then at Dimitri, who pretends like he doesn’t hear. “Come to the cathedral tomorrow,” he tells her. “Rhea has a reward waiting for you.”

“A reward for what?"

He takes her hand and gives it a squeeze. “For becoming our godqueen."

The tension is heightened, and she turns towards the stairway, but Dimitri catches her by the sleeve, gently, and shakes his head.

"If you don't mind my saying, but..."

Byleth turns her heel. "Dimitri, I can't."

He's hesitant as he lifts a hand to brush her hair away from her face. The gesture startles her, and that sad smile on his face is enough to make her reconsider her own stance. "I wanted to say your father would've been proud of you."

She looks at him; and in a fog of tears, she finds the strength to smile.

It's an unexpected reaction, enough to make Dimitri smile too, even through his own veil of tears.

Byleth is grateful that no one is here to witness their little moment; she thinks, of course, that this is a moment she can truly call her own. From the outset, it may seem silly, strange even: two orphans weeping and laughing silently into the night, with no words to spare. Byleth finds herself laughing so hard she begins to cry, until the tears escape her, and until the moon settles quietly above them in a haze. She doesn't realize, of course, that the space between them has closed and that her face is only inches away from his shoulder. She feels his warmth, and for a moment, nothing else matters.

* * *

She opens the door and finds Sylvain sitting on her sleeping cot.

"I couldn't do it," he says, looking at the floor.

She closes the door quietly and puts her armful of flower crowns on the open table next to the cot.

He smiles, weakly. "I...thought I wanted something else." He meets her gaze, steady this time. "But I couldn't follow through."

She pauses, fiddling with the hem of her sleeve. When he notices she won't join him on the cot, he stands, comes to her, and places two hands on her shoulders. "I'm sorry it took me so long," he says, softly. "I know I haven't made it easy for you."

Even though he's the one speaking in subtext, she understands.

A pause.

"Let's get married," he whispers, pulling her into his arms. "What do you say?"

Byleth looks over his shoulder and out the window to see the cathedral looming in the darkness: it's ominous, dark, with spires branching out like a cobweb of poison branches. She pulls him closer, and breathes in his scent: heady, musky, and somewhat flowery. It smells like home, or at least, some version of home she remembered long ago in some forgotten memory.

"What about your father?" She says, softly, into his shoulder. "And your House?"

"He doesn't make my decisions." Sylvain pulls away, desperately this time. "We could elope, you and me. You won't have to worry about making a living, or looking for the next job. We could live comfortably, our children could live comfortably, we...we could live the way we wanted to."

"The way you want," she says. "Not me."

His gaze lingers on her for only a moment longer.

She breaks away from him. "I think you should leave."

* * *

Sylvain considers himself many things: a cheater, a playboy, a man with nothing to lose. But even as he sits alone in his room, he finds it difficult to reconcile the disparities: he's everything and nothing at all.

So Byleth doesn't want to marry him. _Big deal_. It's not like he would've gone through on his promise anyway. Felix is right: she has no name, no lands, and no deeds. And Sylvain has a crest and half a mind to keep his family lineage in tact. "All talk and no play," he mutters, with a slack-jawed smile.

No one expects anything from him, anyway.

He thinks he if he repeats this enough he'll start believing it too.

The door to his room slams open.

He jolts up to see Rhea standing in the frame, that tactful and elegant smile never wavering.

She doesn't budge. "Sylvain," her breath is light as air. "A moment?"

"Now?"

Rhea's a vision in white, her dress translucent under thick moonlight. He can see the faint outline of her breasts, the curve of her waist, and he immediately feels his pants go snug.

He thinks about Byleth one last time and throws away the last bit of dignity he has.

After all, he's a man with nothing to lose.

* * *

Byleth heads to the cathedral the next morning to see the doors ajar, a chorus of excitement spilling thick into the air.

Three demonic beasts, emaciated and thin, are chained to the walls. Two of them are alive, but one of them lies splayed open between them, stomach gutted in half.

In front of them sit several dozen offerings: Sylvain, Felix, Dimitri, and the other losers of the tournament, tied up, waiting.

“**Byleth**!” Sylvain cries out. "Byleth! Thank god you're here."

Among them, an entire audience in the stands. Annette and Mercedes giggle and wave in her direction when she enters, and she finds no strength to wave back, staring at the debacle presented before her.

She doesn’t answer Sylvain’s cry, instead, taking Rhea's hand as she guides her into the tomb.

Byleth knows where she must go: and as she gazes up at the throne, she smiles.

“_Byleth_!” Sylvain cries again. “Byleth, this is crazy—”

When he realizes she's paying him no heed, he pauses. “...Byleth?"

She takes a seat, her eyes flickering with excitement; yes, _it must be __excitement_, a feeling she's never felt before, a feeling so profound and thick, she can feel it course through every artery, every vein, every vessel.

_I'm home._

"Welcome to the Festival of the Creator," Rhea calls out, voice booming through the halls. "Another year has passed, but our time of darkness is no more. Our godqueen has been chosen. And her words are true to claim."

Byleth watches the procession with a withered gaze, feeling a chill wind come upon her from the cold slabs of stone.

“This is Glenn,” Rhea says, motioning to the smallest beast among them: the smallest, and the most battered and bruised. “He joined us last year after his loss in the tournament."

"You crazy bitch," Felix snarls.

Rhea ignores him and comes to the next beast, dead, and splayed, guts spilling from its belly. “And this...is Miklan." A smile dances onto her lips. "He joined us after defiling the Holy Tomb."

And then, to the last, she presses a kiss. “And Maurice, sweet Maurice." 

Rhea lowers herself to one knee, presses a kiss to Byleth’s hand. “Now you must choose one more to join them.”

Byleth looks at Sylvain, then at Felix, and finally Dimitri.

A dreaminess comes to her, effortless and carefree, as she relaxes into the throne.

“Sylvain.” 

He wilts.

Rhea moves along to untie Dimitri's ropes, along with the other losers. Felix is the last, and even has to take a moment to pause, to look at Sylvain in the eye, and turn away. A better man would stand honorably in protest, a better man would fight the good fight; but Felix has never considered himself a better man. Better men always die first.

“You’re…really going to do this to me?” Sylvain ekes out, quietly. "_You_..."

When she doesn't react, he begins to panic. "Byleth, _please_. I...wasn't perfect but, I swear to you I'll make this right."

"It's not about that," she says, giggling girlishly. "Sylvain..."

Byleth meets his gaze, steady and still.

"Consider it a favor." She smiles. “You always said you wanted a body with no crest.”

The last thing she hears is Sylvain’s cries as Rhea, alongside her bevy of guardsmen, drags him into the open belly of Miklan, stuffs him deep, and sews him up. Byleth, even from her perch on her throne, can hear his muffled cries inside his brother's corpse.

When they untie Dimitri's ropes, he ascends the steps and gives Byleth's a kiss, longing and deep, before the guardsmen set the beasts ablaze.

As the fire spreads, she gazes up in his eyes, clear and blue, and smiles.

It’s the most beautiful moment Byleth has had in a long time.

_F__ifty-fifty and I go where the west wind blows_.

**Author's Note:**

> Have a jolly & spooky day. 8) follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt)!


End file.
